


The Lion and the Light: Bedtime Stories

by mrsrockatansky



Series: The Flower of Ferelden [5]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, First Time, First Time for Everything Fest, Married Sex, Multi, Public Sex, Sexual Inexperience, Threesome - F/F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-08-21 17:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16580768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsrockatansky/pseuds/mrsrockatansky
Summary: A series of E-rated one-shots based on the characters from my DA:Origins retelling, The Lion and the Light. Featuring Florence "Flora" Cousland.





	1. The First Time

**Author's Note:**

> A reworked scene from the original story - where Alistair and Flora lose their virginity to one another in possibly the least romantic place in all of Thedas: on a mouldering bedroll in the ruins of Ostagar!

When she thought about it later, Flora could identify the exact moment when her best friend and brother-warden accepted the reality of his situation; acknowledging that – like it or not – he was a Theirin, and the only viable alternative to rule by the Mac Tirs. Although Alistair had no desire to be king; he could also not stand by as Loghain ruled Ferelden by proxy.

They were huddled around a campfire, which provided some temporary respite from a chilly evening drizzle. Yet, no matter how much wood Finian and Zevran threw onto the flames, their small beacon of light was dwarfed by the oppressing shadows that surrounded them. The ruins of Ostagar had never been a welcoming place even before the Darkspawn had swarmed them; now, it seemed as though they were camped in the middle of a vast and desolate mausoleum. Although there were no bodies left – the Darkspawn had taken them for purposes Flora refused to think about – the presence of their sad, restless spirits hung over Ostagar like a shroud. Even the thin veil of snow mottling the ground failed to soften the bleak ugliness of the ruins.

Finian had just finished telling a wild and possibly truthful story from his days at the University of Orlais. Zevran had given an appreciative cackle (he was still trying to lure Flora's brother into his tent), but Flora herself was distracted by the foreboding silhouette of the fortress surrounding them. The crumbling ruins were bare and vicious, like the decaying fangs of an old wolf; cloaked in a distinct sense of menace.

Flora finished casting a baleful stare up at the spire of Ishal – she had bad memories of that decrepit tower – and looked back down at her companions, their faces illuminated by flickering firelight. Wynne was using the head of her staff to help guide her ink-pen in a reply to Irving; Finian was visibly wondering whether or not to talk about another student escapade; Sten had retreated a short distance away to scrape a whetstone along  _Asala's_ length.

Zevran was also fingering the hilt of his dagger, humming an unfamiliar melody under his breath. Sensing Flora's gaze, he turned the corner of his mouth upwards towards her, somehow sensing that the context was not appropriate for a blown kiss. The memory of Cailan's pyre was still too recent and raw in their minds; the half-rotten corpse of the enthusiastic young king sent at last to the heavens.

Flora smiled back at him, then let her gaze move tentatively towards Alistair. Her fellow Warden had been in an increasingly foul mood all evening; barely responding to questions, his voice thin and taut. This was out of character but not unexpected; the return to Ostagar had affected him more severely than Flora's other companions.

As Flora stared at her best friend, she saw something dangerous flicker across his handsome, tense face; like the ripple of a current beneath still waters, or the first ominous wisps of storm-cloud in a placid spring sky. Alistair's eyes darkened so that the green flecks sunk into the hazel; resignation and frustration embedded within their depths. The corner of his mouth twisted, and for a moment Flora thought that he was going to bellow out his anger into the uncaring gloom of Ostagar.

Instead, with a muttered curse, Alistair clambered abruptly to his feet. Duncan's sword – retrieved that morning from the corpse of a bloated ogre – fell to the dirt, and he barely spared it a glance. Without a word of explanation, their bastard prince strode off into the shadows; heading towards the lower courtyard where the Grey Warden encampment had once been.

Those left behind at the campfire swivelled their heads as one in his wake, Wynne letting out a soft exhalation under her breath.

"The poor boy."

"Why is he  _poor?"_ Zevran spoke up lightly, his voice carefully measured. "It seems to me as though he is going to become very  _rich._ Kings usually are,  _no?_ It goes with the job position."

Wynne fixed the elf with her uncompromising stare; giving a little tut and a shake of the head.

"That's not what I meant, you infuriating elf, and you know it. Alistair has never wanted to be king; and now he finds himself with no alternative, unless he wants a Mac Tir on the throne."

Flora, whose heart had lurched painfully on seeing her best friend disappear into the shadows, stretched out a hand for her staff. Gripping the unassuming wooden length tightly, she used it to propel herself upward. Her knee gave a little twinge of protest; it had been a strenuous day and the strapping was coming loose.

"I'll go and see if he's alright," she breathed, already knowing that he wasn't.

This was also an unnecessary statement; her companions were well aware of her intentions. Finian grimaced, but did not feel that he had enough authority to stop her – Flora's older brother had only re-entered her life a fortnight prior. Although, at twenty five, he was six years her senior; Finian was aware that Flora was still exceptionally wary of him.

"Be careful, Floss," he said instead, a thread of anxiety running through the words.

Flora nodded distractedly; she was not overly worried for her own safety. Her tainted blood would allow her to sense any residual Darkspawn lurking in the ruins, and her gleaming arcane barrier had never let her down in the past. Clutching her staff, she made her way around the campfire, boots crunching in the thin layer of snow settled on the flagstones.

Zevran reached out to grip the end of her staff as Flora passed, gently arresting her movement. Her pale grey eyes dropped to meet his dark ones, and for once he bore the serious expression of one almost three decades in age.

" _Carina,"_ he murmured under his breath. "Our handsome prince is a man who cannot see his way forward. Give him something  _more_  to fight for than a throne he does not want."

The elf let go of her staff and patted her knee with slender, tattooed fingers; affectionate and rueful. Flora gazed down at him for a moment, then gave a little nod, feeling her heart lurch erratically once more against her ribs.

As she followed the long stride of Alistair's footsteps in the snow, the head of her staff spontaneously ignited with a heatless, golden flame.

 _Thank you,_ she thought to her spirits.  _I can't think of anything other than his poor, hollow face._

_**Much like yours when you learnt the truth about your parentage.** _

_Mm._

Flora ducked beneath a crumbling archway, brushing aside strands of hanging ivy. The light from her staff illuminated a gleaming swathe around the decrepit courtyard; illuminating the full devastation that the Darkspawn had wreaked on the encampment. Broken tents lay buried in mounds of snow, jagged and broken poles sticking out at sharp angles. Barrels were lying splintered on their sides; a rusted polearm was propped up against the crushed remnants of a Mabari kennel.

She swallowed, seeing her breath materialise before her in the cool night air. Although her companions were only a few dozen yards away, the oppressive silence of Ostagar created a sense of perfect isolation; as though she were alone with the echoes of the dead.

_I hope there aren't any actual ghosts here. I think a ghost could definitely get through my barrier._

Flora tucked several stray strands of dark red hair behind her ears and lifted her chin; forcing her own personal fears from her mind. Determinedly, she made her way across the courtyard where once Cailan's tent had stood; passing beneath an achingly familiar series of stone arches. As she descended another set of crumbling steps, Flora braced herself to confront whatever remained of the Grey Warden camp.

As though graced with a sense of dramatic timing, the cloud slid gently away from the moon as she emerged on the lower terrace. A pale and diluted light flooded the snow-covered flagstones, illuminating the rows of half-collapsed navy tents. Many of them had been ransacked, little more than tangled of canvas half-buried in snow. Only a handful remained standing in grim defiance of the elements.

This number included the large tent that Flora and Alistair had shared with a dozen other Wardens. It stood at the far end of the courtyard, guy ropes flapping loose but the supporting poles standing firm. The canvas appeared relatively intact, apart from a large tear in one corner.

Flora did not need to look for her best friend's footprints in the snow to know where he had headed. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her staff to cast a shimmering veil of golden light against the snow. Even her potent magic seemed somehow muted against the oppressive ruins of Ostagar.

_These shadows are deeper than the Waking Sea; they could swallow anything._

As if in protest the light from her staff surged outwards, and for a single moment the courtyard shone as bright as day.

_**No darkness in your mortal realm is deep enough that we cannot banish it.** _

_Alright,_ Flora thought back, blinking the dazzled spots from her eyes.  _You've made your point!_

She made her way across the snow-covered flagstones, methodically following the imprinted steps of her brother-warden. His stride was naturally longer than her own – he was a foot taller than her - but these hollowed footprints were uneven and erratic in nature. The drizzle, which had lessened in ferocity since she had left the campsite, was beginning to turn the snow into a greyish slurry.

As Flora approached the entrance to the Warden tent, she heard Zevran's parting comment echoing in her ear once again.

_Give him something to fight for other than a throne that he does not want._

Her heartbeat surged without warning within in her chest, beating a staccato of nervous anticipation against her ribcage.

Taking a deep breath, Flora reached out and lifted the mildewed canvas flap.

The inside of the tent was cast in shadow and smelt of mouldering damp. Many of the bedrolls had disintegrated into ragged clumps of linen on the mud. The poignant remains of personal possessions - a shaving-blade, a hairbrush, a pot of silver-polish – lay strewn haphazardly across the ground. Their owners were three months dead, their bodies either rotting at the bottom of the valley below; or taken for meat by the Darkspawn hordes.

Flora exhaled unsteadily, a sharp pang of melancholy twisting her gut once again. After the disaster of Ostagar, she had fiercely suppressed her sadness over the death of her mentor and her fellow Wardens; focusing instead on the task that she had been left to accomplish. Now, confronted with the pitiful remains of their scant possessions, it was far harder to keep her grief in check.

 _Keep it together, Flora,_ she told herself fiercely, lifting her staff to cast a soft cone of gilded light around the shadowed tent.  _You need to focus on your brother-warden._

Alistair was at the far end of the tent, near where their own bedrolls had once been set neatly beside each other. He was kneeling down, broad shoulders hunched and head bowed; so still and silent that Flora thought he might be praying. Nearby, the tear in the canvas roof had let in a soft drift of snow; a glimpse of Ostagar's crumbling walls could be seen silhouetted against the stars.

The heatless white-gold flame at the end of her staff shrunk until it threw out a muted glow. Directing the mellow light downwards – she did not want to tread on any of her departed brethren's possessions – Flora made her way quietly across the tent. She knew that Alistair was aware of her – even if she had been as soft-footed as Zevran, their shared blood was like a thread perpetually connecting them; she could  _feel_  her best friend's presence like a soft hook tugging at her mind.

Still, Alistair made no move to turn around, remaining hunched on the damp remnants of his bedroll. There was something pitiful about the crumpled defeat of such a powerful frame, like seeing the limp carcass of a lion draped over a hunter's saddle. The olive and coppery-gold colouring of her best friend usually stood out like a brand against the darkness; but now his very self seemed to be muted, the brightness suffocated to a sad, solitary flicker.

 _When I found out that I was a Cousland, I didn't want to accept it,_ Flora thought to herself as she placed the staff gently onto the half-rotted straw matting.  _When the denial left, and I was forced to accept it, it was even more painful._

_Alistair's not in denial any more._

Feeling her strapped knee give a twinge of protest, Flora lowered herself gracelessly onto what had once been her bedroll; the mildewed linen not coping well with being exposed to the elements for three months. She reached out and put her hand on his shoulder, feeling the muscle's humming tension beneath the flat of her palm.

Alistair flinched at her touch, his face stricken in a way that reminded Flora of how he had been after Ostagar. She felt a sudden, deep twist of guilt –  _returning here had been her idea -_ but kept her hand in place on his shoulder, not knowing what else to do.

 _What can I say to him?_ she asked her spirits, and received nothing but an expectant silence in reply.

"Alistair," she breathed, a hollow ache in the pit of her stomach.

He did not look at her; eyes focused blindly on his own mouldering bedroll. Flora did not say anything more, letting her fingers wander across the span of his broad shoulders. The drizzle had plastered the thin linen of his shirt to the prominent line of the muscle below, the tan skin visible beneath the damp fabric. Even when bent double with frustration and resentment, the dormant power of her best friend's body was palpable.

Flora slid a palm down the line of his back, her thumb tracing the dejected bend of his spine.

"I just don't  _know_ anymore," he blurted out suddenly, the words emerging wild and desperate from his throat. "Six months ago, I was so certain of everything. Now –  _now,_ I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know who I am anymore – or who I'm supposed to  _be."_

Flora leaned forwards, brushing aside the damp, bronze curls at the nape of her best friend's neck and pressing a kiss to the exposed skin. She felt him tremble at the touch, an unsteady exhalation escaping his throat.

"Then know  _me,"_ she whispered impulsively, startled by the implicit yielding of her words.  _"Know me."_

Up until this moment, the two Wardens had only gently tested the boundaries of intimacy in the semi-privacy of their tent. He had lain on top of her as they kissed, and she had felt his arousal pressing between her thighs; yet they had always been fully clothed. Several weeks prior, she had straddled him in her smallclothes and he had pressed a single, tentative kiss to her nipple, cheeks flushing. Yet he had never slid exploratory fingers down her trousers, and she had never done more than grind her thigh against his equally clothed shaft. There had been an adolescent hesitancy about their awkward groping; a shy and sweet hesitancy that had delayed more adult exploration.

Now, high within the mouldering fortress of Ostagar, Flora felt the atmosphere in the damp tent shift; the air becoming tense,  _almost_  electric. She could see the hairs rising on the back of Alistair's neck; his shoulders falling still as the breath caught, then emerged in a low, helpless groan. The weight of the crown seemed already to bear down on him; casting a shadow across the contoured span of his back. He turned to face her fully; the green flecks in his usually kind hazel eyes standing out like chips of glass. There was no gentleness in her best friend's gaze now, only a glittering, urgent need.

Flora felt strong hands descend to her hips, and then she found herself flat on her back on the bedroll, her thighs parted and Alistair already positioned in readiness between them. A second later and his fingers were curling into the material of her shirt; one sharp tug and the fabric had ripped, exposing her fully.

Her let out another muted sigh, devouring the sight of her high, creamy breasts, the small pink nipple appearing a dusky violet in the moonlight. He reached out with a clumsy hand to cup one, rubbing his calloused thumb over a nipple to make it stiffen. Flora let out a small, strangled sound, eyes half-closed with tentative anticipation.

Then, before she had even caught her breath, Flora felt her breeches and smallclothes being tugged down her thighs with strong, impatient hands. There was no time to remove them completely – once the leather was bundled around her bent knees, Alistair turned his attention to his own breeches. She heard the metallic rattle of a belt and the rustling of fabric; barely daring to breathe, she peeked down to see her best friend with what appeared to be a great, broad length of twitching muscle clenched in a loose fist. It was thick, and meaty, and she could see a vein pulsing beneath the olive flesh. The head was bulbous and dripping with a clear liquid, Flora stared at it in fascination. As a healer, she was not unfamiliar with male anatomy; but had never before seen it in such an  _engorged_ state. Fleetingly, she wondered if it was even going to  _fit._ He spat on his hand and slicked it along the length of twitching flesh.

With part-lubricated shaft in hand, Alistair had only one desire: to sink it somewhere tight and pleasurable enough to temporarily purge the spectre of the throne from his mind. He leaned over her, confounded by the unfamiliar folds and velvety pleats of female anatomy; there seemed to be no obvious place for him to claim.

Without any real knowledge – his only experience in the field came from watching Eamon's prize stallion mount purebred mares – Alistair leaned forwards and pressed the head of his cock at the apex of Flora's legs. It nudged against her folds and slid off into the hollow at the top of her inner thigh. Increasingly frustrated, the bastard prince let out a low growl and realigned himself against the soft, fleshy pleats. A bead of perspiration dripped from his throat, landing between her bared breasts.

Flora reached out blindly, not entirely sure what she was doing but possessing a healer's basic grasp of anatomy. Her fingers brushed against the hard muscle of his pelvis, then slithered down to grip the base of her best friend's cock. It felt warm, and pulsed with blood; she aligned him with herself as best she could. A half-strangled sound slipped from Alistair's throat, and without hesitation he pushed his hips forward in an abrupt thrust. More through luck than judgement, the bastard prince managed to sheath his full length within her in a single thrust.

He let out a groan quite unlike any other that Flora had ever heard; not that she was concerned with the noises of her brother-warden at that precise moment. She was sprawled flat on her back against the mouldering sleeping mat, her eyes almost as wide as her parted lips. There had been a sudden, sharp pain between her legs and then a pressure so intense that it made her light-headed. She felt so full that she thought she might split in half, like a log burning overlong in the fire.

Alistair came to his senses when he heard a gasp of sudden pain escape his sister-warden's throat. He stared down at her, his arms rooted either side of her head; palms pressed flat against the mat. Concern broke through the cloud of desire and desperation like a ray of moonlight; some semblance of reason returning.

"Flo – I'm sorry- " he croaked, more sweat dripping from his forehead. "Did I  _hurt_  you?"

"I'm fine," Flora breathed, still fascinated by the conjunction of their joined flesh. "You're just…  _big_. Bigger than I was expecting."

He leaned deep into her with a grunt, his warm and heavy sac nestled against her buttocks. She was startled to hear a soft moan escape her throat, a whimper that did not even  _sound_  like her. For a full minute the two young Wardens stared transfixed at each other; finally bonded in flesh as well as blood. It seemed oddly fitting that Ostagar served as the catalyst for such activities since it had been the fellow Order members who had once teased them with the prediction that they would end up in bed.

"Baby," Alistair begged eventually, the single syllable emerging in a half-groan as he savoured the sound of her arousal. "Flo – I – I… I  _need- I need you- "_

"Take me," she whispered, the strange anaesthetic prickle of her magic soothing the sore flesh. "Take me, then."

The young man had no personal experience in what he was doing, but he had seen plenty of stallions rutting mares and Mabari in heat over the years. He was finally able to yield to the primal instinct that had encouraged him to mount his sister-warden from the moment they had first begun to sleep tangled together.

_At last, at last._

The first few thrusts were tentative; an experimental rocking of the hips. Even this gentle stimulation was enough to send pulses of liquid desire straight down Alistair's shaft into the root of his belly; and he knew that self-pleasure was forever ruined for him.

_How could my hand, dry and rough, ever match up to this heat, this tightness? It's like she's got a mouth down there, sucking me in with all her strength._

_Somehow, I just knew that she would feel... indescribable._

Such impurity of thought should have prompted blushes in the former Chantry adherent; instead he found his mouth dry with excitement at his own daring. He put his mouth to Flora's ear and repeated the compliment, his shy and sweet sister-warden let out a grown woman's moan of approval. Her hair was strewn around her in a decadent mass of crimson; incongruous against the dull and unassuming backdrop.

Encouraged by the wanton noises coming from the girl beneath him, Alistair began to increase the pace and depth of his strokes. The hesitant probe became a rhythmic pump; the muscle of his tawny buttocks contracting with each thrust. The slap of flesh began to echo about the mildewed canvas, a defiant act of youthful vitality amongst the desolation. If she had not been wet when he had first entered her, her folds were now slick and swollen with heated arousal. Broad thighs kept Flora's slender legs pressed apart; though she needed little encouragement to keep herself spread for him. Alistair realised suddenly that, out of all the men who had wished to bed Flora: Zevran, Teagan, even their old commander at Ostagar if rumour was to be believed, it had been he –  _Alistair_  – who had claimed the lovely mage's virginity.

The bastard prince lost track of how many times he drove himself into her; vaguely grateful for the Warden-stamina that prevented him prematurely spilling his seed. His hips had taken on a will of their own, focused solely on sheathing fully within his best friend's freshly-taken cunt.

Flora clung to him like a sailor adrift in tempestuous seas; her fingers digging into the hard muscle of his back like it was a length of driftwood. The pain was now interspersed with pleasure, the two sensations tangling together in her belly. Her best friend was not gentle with her, but Flora's body responded well to his frantic, forceful need. With her legs wrapped around his waist, she yielded herself to wholly to the young man as he laid potent claim to her atop the mildewed bedroll.

Suddenly, the prince let out a strangulated groan and began to buck himself more vigorously between his sister-warden's thighs. A strange desperation cast a shadow across his handsome features; his lip curled back to expose his teeth. The wet, driving slap of flesh reached a frantic crescendo, and then his hips juddered with astonishing force. An involuntary cry tore free from Alistair's throat as he spent himself while rooted within his startled friend. At least a half-dozen spurts erupted, hot and potent, from his buried cockhead. Even in his less-than-coherent state, he managed to draw her hips up towards his, wanting to make sure that not a single drop of seed escaped from between her hard-used folds.

It took several moments for his vision to return; it came back a little clearer and sharper with each dazed blink. Slowly, his sister-warden came into view on the bedroll beneath him. Her hair was spread in erratic whorls of crimson beneath her, the red a decadent contrast to the eggshell smoothness of her skin. Her cheeks were pink with the exertion of their activities; a faint sheen of sweat gleamed between her bared breasts. Alistair stared down at her with unerring focus, committing every inch of how she looked to memory. He had the fleeting and perverse notion that it should be some painter or sculptor capturing his best friend's essence, that such exquisite perfection ought to be preserved on a medium more tangible than his own mind.

"I love you, Flo," the prince breathed, still inside her; a sudden brightness in his eyes. "Beyond count or measure. I  _love you so, so much."_

Flora smiled at him and he felt the tears break free; one slithering down his cheek and dripping onto her throat. She wriggled an arm free – she was pinned thoroughly beneath him – and reached up to trace the plane of his jaw with her thumb.

"I love you too," she whispered, lifting her head for a kiss.

Alistair met her lips with enthusiasm, shifting his hips to press her into the bedroll. When they parted, his eyes lingered on her face as though they were bonded there by some strange magic. Then, as though drawn with a fishing line, his gaze dropped to her shirt. The buttons had been ripped off by his forceful impatience; there were fingerprints imprinted on her collarbone.

A sudden, fleeting expression of guilt creased across the young prince's face, as though realising for the first time the grim nature of the circumstances. The bedroll beneath his sister-warden was mildewed and stained with damp; patches of snow surrounded them where the canvas was torn to reveal the sky.

"This – this wasn't how I thought it would be," he breathed, suddenly despairing. "I was so – so  _rough_ with you, Flo. My sweet girl. I should have waited, until we were at an inn, a proper  _bed-_ "

"I liked you being rough," the northern girl replied, solemn and earnest. "Honestly. And I couldn't wait a moment longer."

Alistair stared at the intricate symmetry of Flora's face, as familiar with the nuances of her expression as he had just become with the intimate parts of her body. He saw no lie in the clear, grey pools of her irises, or the full and parted promise of her mouth. She smiled at him and he let out a half-groan, leaning back down for another kiss.

Even when their mouths had reluctantly parted, he kept his lips beside her ear; murmuring a hoarse and utterly wholehearted oath against her hair.

"I'm  _forever_  yours, Flora of Herring."

"And I'm yours forever, Alistair Theirin."

Alistair found that – when the words emerged from his sister-warden's throat – they did not sound quite so foreign. He grinned, eyes dropping once again to take in the high and creamy swells of Flora's bared breasts.

"Want to… go again? We could…  _take our clothes off_  this time."

"Yeeeees!"


	2. The Privacy Of A Bedchamber

After nearly a week and a half spent camping beneath the spring drizzle, the Wardens and their company were relieved to spot a travellers' inn nestled in the cleft of two low hills. They had made good time from Ostagar – everybody was keen to put the ruins of that Darkspawn-ravaged fortress behind them – and the Brecilian Forest lay only a few days steady ride away. They had even been able to glimpse its crimson borders from the peak of a high ridge earlier that day; the vast and ancient wood spread out like a creeping shadow across much of Ferelden's eastern region. The Wardens were not  _entirely_ sure how they were supposed to locate the Dalish tribe within its enigmatic depths, but decided in mutual – silent – agreement that they would worry about that upon arrival.

Alistair had been the first to point out the inn, tucked neatly away between the slopes. Although his eyesight was not as keen as the elf's, Zevran was currently huddled deep within his travel-cloak and thoroughly cursing the rain. Wynne, who was equally displeased with the weather but determined to be more stoic about it than the elf, immediately suggested that they spend the night beneath its solid timber rafters.

Finian Cousland, despite his valiant efforts to adapt to a lifestyle on horseback, was sorely missing his creature comforts. Having spent the past half-decade living a life of unsubtle decadence and excess whilst studying at the University of Orlais, the abrupt transition from castle to campsite was a traumatic one. He had been so quietly gloomy that he had utterly failed to notice Zevran's lusty advances; which mildly perturbed the incorrigible elf. Sten shot the unfortunate young man several withering looks, deeply unimpressed by his lack of stamina.

His sister, as a true-blooded northerner, was unbothered by the rain. Flora was also ambivalent to the draughty and damp sleeping conditions under canvas, for much of her life had been spent sleeping on the sandy tile of a fisherman's shack. It had been a rare occurrence for her to spend a night dry; she was used to going to bed soggy and waking up with teeth chattering and feet numbed. Even now, after their tenth night beneath the stars, she felt nothing less than wholly content. Perched on the saddle with her beloved brother-warden at her back, one strong arm around her waist while the other handled the reins; it was easy for the young spirit healer to fool herself into thinking that all was right with the world. The rain slid off her fine-boned face as water would the scales of a fish; she gazed benevolently out at the rolling landscape before her.

However, Flora was also considerate of those in her company and so when Alistair murmured in her ear about the possibility of staying in the inn, she gave a little Herring grunt of agreement. The prince brushed his lips briefly against her damp hair, before turning the horse's head towards the inn.

It took a little over an hour to descend to where the tavern was nestled between a dip in the hills. During that hour the sun yielded its mastery over the sky; leaving a peach and amber haze in its wake as it sunk below the western horizon. Night stole in quickly during early spring, and shadows massed beyond the reach of the lanterns. The tavern was a two-storey brick and timber building, with a fenced yard at its front and dwarven-wrought iron balustrades. Firelight gleamed from behind leaded windows that were in sore need of a clean.

A yawning elf took their horses, accepting a coin from Finian with a grateful nod. The interior of the inn was unashamedly rustic; the floor was compacted earth strewn with hay, and no single piece of furniture matched its neighbour. There were only a few other guests gathered about the tables: a sulking dwarf nursing an empty tankard of ale, a pair of older women gossiping quietly in a corner, and a man scribbling furiously at a sheet of parchment.

While Finian and Wynne went to cajole a decent price from the innkeeper, Alistair swung a suspicious gaze around the other occupants. He decided that none of them  _appeared_  to be on Rendon Howe's payroll, but resolved to take no chances. They had already been ambushed three times by the treacherous arl's hired killers; the prince had no desire to see that number increase.

As her brother-warden glowered around at their fellow patrons, Flora was more concerned with the grumbling of her empty belly. She headed straight for an unoccupied table; as usual, the stares of the other patrons followed her progress. Although the young Warden always left her staff outside with their baggage to avoid provoking unwanted attention, the finely hewn symmetry of her features and the cardinal red excesses of her hair drew eyes like moths to a flame.

The dwarf decided after a moment that the girl did not have enough meat on her bones, and returned to his sulk. The scribbling man, eyes lighting up, made as though to rise from his chair – and then received a blistering glare from Alistair. Although Alistair's identity was not yet public knowledge, when called for, the streak of Marician authority blazed through the self-depreciating exterior like lightning through a summer sky.

"Sweetheart," the young man said, seating himself on the bench beside his new lover and slinging a deliberate arm around her shoulders. "Anything you fancy for dinner?"

Flora cast a vague eye over the menu; chalked in looping letters on a ceiling beam above the bar. She could make out a few characters - an  _e,_ an  _s_ – but the overall words proved indecipherable.

"Food," she replied in solemn tones, nudging her knee companionably against his beneath the table. "I don't mind what.  _Anything."_

Alistair grinned at her, absentmindedly plucking up a loose strand of oxblood hair between his fingers and twirling it as he read the limited menu on offer.

"Looks like we have a choice between  _meat_  stew and  _veg_ stew," he observed, one eyebrow lifting to his hairline.  _"Meat_ sounds rather ominous. What kind of meat?"

"One dreads to think," Zevran chimed in, swooping down to claim a seat opposite. "It is a Fereldan stew, so it could be anything. Ah, I remember a particular  _cocido madrileño_ I was served once in Antiva City. Chickpea, cardoon,  _chorizo, jamon serrano_ – it was almost as delicious as the serving maid who brought it to my table."

Alistair went slightly pink about the cheeks while Flora puzzled over the meaning of the elf's sentence, having understood only about one word in three.

Wynne and Finian joined them at the bench, the latter clutching two precarious handfuls of tankards. As he lowered them to the table, foamy amber liquid slopped over the wood.

"The Qunari has retired early, but I've ordered us all meat stew," the senior enchanter informed them briskly. "You need to build up your constitutions before venturing into the Brecilian Forest."

"What  _manner_ of meat are we talking about?" Alistair asked, tentatively. "I mean – not that I'm  _fussy._ But I would quite like to know what I'm eating before it… enters my mouth."

The struggle to hold himself back flickered across Zevran's face. At last, the elf managed to suppress his lascivious retort, switching his attention to Finian.

"I take it – since we're trying to  _save coin –_ that we need to share sleeping quarters tonight. I'm happy to share, master Cousland."

"Oh, no need for that," Wynne corrected him blithely, stifling a smile as the former Crow's face fell. "Arl Eamon provisioned us well back at Redcliffe. We've each got our own chamber."

The old mage then smiled ruefully at the simultaneous alarm on the faces of both young Wardens. Alistair and Flora had not spent a night apart since Flora's first arrival at Ostagar; they had begun sharing a bedroll long before sharing their first kiss.

"Don't look so  _worried_ , children. You've been placed in a chamber together. I would not think to part you."

"I claim the room furthest away from my sister," half-bleated Finian, horrific realisation dawning. "I've no desire to be kept up half the night by your romantic excesses."

"More like  _all_ night," added Zevran, evilly. "This'll be the first time they've had a proper bed and a lockable door since first lying together."

Finian promptly put his hands over his ears with an expression of unadulterated horror. Flora and Alistair, to whom this thought had not occurred, shared a startled, wide-eyed glance. The prospect of getting intimate somewhere other than a mouldering bedroll beneath tattered canvas was an inviting one, and Wynne hastily interjected.

"No disappearing off to your room before dinner!"

"Mm, I want food," agreed Flora, delivering a surreptitious pat to her brother-warden's knee beneath the table.

" _Mystery meat,"_ intoned Zevran darkly, casting a baleful stare in the direction of the kitchen.

The stew arrived in a set of steaming bowls. Alistair, nominated to take the first taste, tentatively gulped down a spoonful before proclaiming in relief that it was only beef. He proceeded to gulp down the rest of his share, barely noticing the seasoned meat or subtle blend of herbs. The young man's mind kept returning to Zevran's words from earlier:  _a proper bed, a lockable door._

He darted his gaze towards his sister-warden, who was munching her way determinedly through an overlarge chunk of bread at his side. Despite the somewhat mindless expression on Flora's face, Alistair could not help but admire the full jut of the lips; the bee stung mouth which had been attached to his own for much of the previous night.

Trying not to make it  _too_ obvious – although he could feel himself breaking into a slight sweat – he dropped his eyes surreptitiously lower. Flora did not wear clothes that flattered her figure; she wore breeches that were kept up with a knotted length of rope and borrowed shirts from every male member of the party. On this particular night she was wearing one of Zevran's cream linen blouses. The material, still damp from the drizzle, clung dotingly to the curve of her egg-shaped breast.

Hastily – before anybody could catch his covetous stare – the prince lifted his gaze and distracted the party by initiating a conversation about their favourite dishes. Wynne recalled fondly a particular stew she'd enjoyed as a child, while Zevran and Finian tried to out-do one another with tales of decadent Antivan and Orlesian cuisine respectively. Alistair, feeling as though he ought to stick up for his home nation, chimed in with a passionate defence of Fereldan dairy.

After listening to the others speak for a quarter candle, Flora interjected with a droning monologue on the merits of different varieties of fish; a speech so tedious that, one by one, their companions made their excuses and fled to their chambers. At last, only the two junior Wardens remained at the table, sat side by side and hand in hand.

"Everyone's gone," observed Flora at last in mild surprise. "I didn't notice."

"You were several leagues under the sea, my dear," Alistair replied cheerfully, lacing his sword-callused fingers between her slender ones. "I think they've all gone to bed."

"Ooh," she said, bringing their clasped hands to her mouth so that she could kiss his knuckles. "I'd better go to the bath-house, first. Otherwise Wynne will just keep nagging me about how  _getting rained on doesn't count as a wash._ When it clearly DOES!"

Alistair watched her go with vague unease brewing in his gut. On the one hand, he was aware that she was the best defended out of their whole party – they had not yet come across might or magic that could penetrate her shield.

_On the other –_

_That's my girl._

He made himself head towards the bedchambers at the rear of the tavern, teeth gritted and internally repeating reassurance to himself:  _her spirits always watch over her, we're in the middle of nowhere, Howe won't have any men here._

The two Wardens had been banished to the far end of the corridor, since nobody save for Zevran desired to be kept awake for much of the night. Alistair headed to the last door in the corridor, fumbling around in his pocket until he retrieved the key that Wynne had deposited on the table earlier.

The bedchamber was small and rustic in décor, dominated by a wooden four-poster bed that was missing its hangings. A freshly-built hearth took up much of one wall; the room contained little else save for a wooden chest at the foot of the bed. To Alistair's astonished amusement, a faded portrait of Maric hung beside the window. Bastard prince eyed old king for several moments, before the former reached up to hang his travel cloak over the painting. Alistair had no wish for even an oil and canvas likeness of his father to gaze down on his bedroom activities.

He slung his and Flora's travel packs onto the bed, deciding that there was no point in unpacking. The boots were next to come off, deposited one by one onto the floorboards. Having spent a moment gloomily inspecting the blisters that were an unavoidable consequence of prolonged travel, the heir to the Fereldan throne sat down on the edge of the bed. A moment later, restless, he rose to his feet and headed towards the mantel; staring at a chipped enamel vase. He spent some time stoking up the fire, prodding logs into a more auspicious position with an iron poker.

Then, unable to keep still, he paced the length of the chamber; spanning the breadth in eight broad strides. He could not keep his thoughts from Flora, who was  _even now_ parted from his sight, disrobing and bathing in a chamber surrounded by  _strangers._

The memory of Wynne's firm reprimand rose to the forefront of his mind; delivered at Redcliffe Castle when Alistair had strained his neck during training due to looking about the courtyard for his sister-warden.

_She can look after herself. And, even if she can't, her spirits will look after her instead. You've seen them intervene on her behalf._

Alistair had indeed: he had witnessed the golden shield blossom into existence around Flora's startled face just in time to intercept an unexpected blow from unseen quarters.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath and calm down, the young man went over to the bed and sat down; swinging his legs up onto the mattress and leaning back against the pillows. Reaching into his travel back, he retrieved a map and spent several minutes scrutinising their proposed route.

After a quarter-candle of mindless staring at inked trees and spidery labels, Alistair could bear her absence no longer. He placed the map to one side and clambered from the bed, determined to set eyes on his missing sister-warden.

At that moment, the door opened with a creaking yawn and Flora appeared, her slight figure diminished by the tall frame. She was barefoot and clutching a blanket around her shoulders, rivulets of wet hair soaking into the wet wool.

"It's me," she whispered slightly unnecessarily, clutching the blankets in a fist to her breast as she turned to shut the door.

Alistair let out a low exhalation of relief, but the accompanying greeting died in his throat. In that single instant, there seemed to be no air left in his lungs to deliver it. Flora, deciding that – after their recent activities – there was no longer any purpose to modesty, had just dropped the blanket without warning. She stepped out from its woollen folds, combing her fingers through the waist-length strands of sodden hair, and stood before the heat of the hearth wholly naked.

Alistair stared; lightheadedness shifting the foundations of the chamber in subtle nuances around him. His mouth felt drier than the sands of the Western Approach, while his pulse thundered in his ears like the relentless pounding of war drums. When he was finally able to swallow, it was both painful and loud. Flora had not yet noticed his temporary paralysis; she was focused on teasing the last of the knots from the glorious wet abundance of her hair. As she worked her fingers through the dark red strands, she absentmindedly caught his eye, and curved the corner of her full mouth towards him with shy affection.

Alistair took a single step towards her, yielding a few reluctant inches to the primal urge within him. His body was screaming at him to take action; to lunge and claim such ripe flesh for his own; his cock – instantly straining at the tiresome restricts of his trousers – demanded satisfaction. The girl standing before him seemed crafted by the Maker's own loving hand; or perhaps made as an offering to some older and more profane god. What had previously been masked by shadow or hidden beneath blankets during their fumbling ruts was now gloriously illuminated by firelight: the unsullied cream of her skin, the plump, pert apples of her breasts, the delicate undulation from waist to hip. The plane of her belly, smooth as poured milk, invited the eye down to where a small patch of crimson nestled at the crux of her thighs. When she turned to angle her wet hair towards the heat of her hearth, he caught a glimpse of her high and rounded buttocks; and Alistair thought that he might actually  _faint._

" _Maker's Breath,"_ he managed at last, reaching out a hand to the bedpost in order to steady himself. "Flora."

Astonished by the more formal use of her name, Flora blinked at him. She let the rope of damp hair drop from her fingers, rivulets of water streaming down her neck.

"Eh," she replied, in typical Herring fashion. "You alright?"

"No," he croaked, taking another measured step towards her in an attempt to temper the demanding clamour of instinct.

Flora cast a swift healer's eye over her brother-warden; to her perplexion, he  _seemed_ to be in good health, save for the perspiration beading on his forehead and the odd, constricted look on his face.

_And the state of his trousers. Oh!_

She could not believe that she had not spotted it beforehand: the tenting of her best friend's breeches with conspicuous arousal. A blush rose to Flora's cheeks – to even  _think_  about male arousal was still a new experience for her – and she smiled a second time, self-conscious and yet simultaneously delighted.

"You're the most beautiful thing – creature – Maker, I don't know the word," Alistair said, helplessly. "I've ever seen, Flo.  _Ever._  It's… it's such a privilege to look at you."

The young prince took another step forward, eyes devouring his new lover's damp body; from the length of her thigh, to the hollow of her throat, to the blush-pink buds of her nipples. There was a raw intensity to his face, the green flecks in his hazel gaze standing out like chips of glass.

"Alistair," Flora reminded him, kindly. "You can do more than  _look."_

Alistair crossed the floorboards in an instant; coming to a breathless halt before her. His eyes focused themselves on hers, asking a burning question; she smiled her permission up at him, face tilted to compensate for the foot's difference in height.

He reached out, feeling at first like some clumsy child grabbing covetously at a toy. The moment that his fingers made contact with her skin – his palms settling gently on the outside of her forearms – the awkwardness melted away. It was replaced by an odd sense of inevitability; as though it had been decreed by fate that Duncan's two young recruits would end up in each other's arms.

As she had permitted; he touched her  _everywhere._ His palms caressed the length from elbow to wrist, he took her hands and kissed them like a suitor, suckling each finger gently. He spread his fingers of her shoulders, running them down her spine and gripping her hips gently. He cupped her breasts, lifting them to kiss their ripe undersides; teasing the nipples to stiffness with his thumbs. Each leg was fondled from thigh to toe, her slender calves massaged and each little foot admired. He traced the line of her collarbone with his tongue, pressing a tender kiss into the hollow of her throat. Her neck was suckled with equal care, his lips leaving blossoming roses of his affection across her skin. Each ear was located within the mass of wet hair and its shell carefully bitten; the tip of his tongue nudging at the delicate inner whorls as she inhaled unsteadily.

_I'm hers,_ his feverish mind declared with each heated kiss and caress.  _Hers. I'm all hers. I belong to this sweet and lovely girl from the north. She claims me every time I touch her skin._

His fingers crept around her hips to caress the undersides of Flora's buttocks; growing in confidence, he took each pert mound in a palm and squeezed the ripe flesh. Next, he ran his forefinger between her buttocks and was rewarded by a hastily-stifled whimper. Curious, gazing down at her flushed and wide-eyed face, Alistair repeated the caress; but let his finger come to a halt against the wrinkled indentation. He began to rub in small circles – like he had done to her pearl of pleasure the previous night – and she let out a helpless moan.

"Do you like that, baby?" he breathed, genuinely curious, watching her struggle to draw in air. "Does it feel good, back there?"

Flora nodded, astonished. His responding grin had an uncharacteristic dark edge to it; he put his lips to her throat with a growl and suckled a harder kiss into her skin.

"Then... I'll take you there," Alistair promised, impulsively. "Soon."

She smiled up at him, her pale eyes made amber and opaque by the reflected hearth-light. He gazed down at her for a long moment, then – finally – let his hand drop between her legs. What he found made him half-dizzy: she was so saturated that rivulets of her own arousal were running down her inner thighs. His fingers made an an audible click of wetness as they parted her folds; and he was able to glide one broad forefinger inside her with no taut resistance.

"My love," he said admiringly under his breath, though she could give little more than an incoherent whisper in response. "My darling girl. You're  _so_  beautiful, do you know that?"

Flora listened, utterly enraptured. She  _had_  known in an off-hand way, since her looks had often been explained by others as the Maker's compensation for her lack of brains and skill. Yet – coming from Alistair's mouth – the words took on a new significance; they made her both shy and delighted, and oddly proud.

Alistair smiled down at her, letting his knuckle nudge against the throbbing bud of flesh that she had shown him in the tent the previous night. He could feel it pulse beneath his calloused thumb; swollen and stiff in response to his prolonged caresses.

"Please," Flora whispered, half-dazed and desperate. "Please- I want - I NEED- "

She flailed her fingers towards where his aching cock still pressed against the confines of his breeches; suspended in exquisite torture as he focused on his best friend's body.

"I will," Alistair replied, knowing that there was no way he would be able to resist penetrating her before the evening was out. "I promise, Flo. But first – well. I haven't kissed you  _everywhere_ , yet."

He took her by the hand and led her to the bed, the obedient Flora followed in slight confusion; wondering what he could possibly mean. The bed itself was covered with an assortment of strewn blankets, many of them embroidered with traditional Fereldan designs. A half-dozen cushions were stacked haphazardly against the headboard; several had toppled onto the floorboards.

Gently and yet firmly, Alistair guided her down onto the blankets, his face alight with mingled affection and desire. It was easy for the young Warden to position his lover beneath him, she was over a foot shorter and almost a hundred pounds lighter than he. Aware of their disparity in size, he was careful to keep himself propped above Flora on both hands; gazing down at her with unblinking focus, the green flecks in his irises gleaming like filaments. Flora stared back up at him, her heart racing with unexpected urgency. Then he lowered his mouth to hers and she parted her lips in happy yielding, reaching up to cradle his face between her palms.

They had shared a bed before, of course – in Redcliffe Castle, in various taverns and dwellings across south-western Ferelden – but there was something fundamentally  _different_ about being in a bed with her best friend now that their relationship had evolved beyond hesitant adolescent affection. There was a knowing intimacy in their kisses now: he had been inside her, spilt his very life-essence within her over a dozen times in the past week alone. They had been introduced to the most intimate parts of each other's bodies; albeit always in the shadow of a shared tent, heated gasps and pants hastily muffled as they writhed beneath the blankets. Their kisses were made richer and more potent by the knowledge that such foreplay was a delicious prelude to the physical consummation of desire.

Yet, as tempting as it was to unbuckle his belt and sheathe himself within his impatient companion, Alistair had another goal in mind for the evening. He broke their kiss with a half-groan, lifting himself on strong elbows as she stared dazedly up at him. The expression of confusion on Flora's face was almost comical: usually by now, he was sunk ten inches deep between her thighs.

Resisting the temptation to yield to the plaintive plea of those huge, cloud-grey irises; Alistair brushed several strands of damp crimson away from Flora's neck so that he could kiss the skin, hearing her squeak as he nuzzled the sensitive spot below her ear.

"You're  _so_  bloody gorgeous," he half-groaned into her hair, ducking his head to let his lips meander down the slender line of her throat. "This feels like – like a dream."

"It's real," she whispered back, tilting her head back against the cushion and anchoring her fingers in the blankets. "I promise."

Alistair smiled into the hollow of her neck, then continued to plaster her collarbone with kisses; leaving a trail of heat and saliva in the wake of his amorous tongue. He inched himself lower, shuffling down the bed until he was aligned with her breasts – still familiar territory. Cupping the small, apple-sized swells in broad and callused palms, he fixed his lips around one nipple and began to suckle it gently. Flora arched her back and whimpered, pushing herself against his mouth as her fingers tightened their hold on the blankets. He held her other breast in a covetous grip, not yet experienced enough to fondle it while his tongue was preoccupied.

Alistair could have spent an hour lavishing his best friend's breasts with adoration; yet he had other goals in mind for this evening, and for this rare treat of a  _bed._ After pressing a tender kiss to Flora's other nipple – he did not want it to feel left out – he began to edge himself lower down the mattress, determination writ across his handsome face.

Flora's expression gradually slid from dazed pleasure to mild confusion – what was he  _doing?_ Perplexed, she watched her brother-warden's gilded head descend down the smooth plane of her belly, his lips branding her skin with repeated affection. The muscle of his shoulders tested the seams of his shirt, moving in ripples like the shallows of the ocean as he inched himself lower.

"Alistair," she whispered, craning her neck to eye him as he nuzzled his face against her navel. "Where are you going?"

From her perspective, he appeared to be going in the wrong direction. Alistair tilted his face towards her – flushed from prolonged contact with her skin – and smiled; one of the warm, lopsided grins that she knew so well. Instead of responding he shuffled himself further down the blankets, assuming a position between her legs that would have been impossible to assume in the cramped confines of a tent. He pressed his lips to the downy, dark red patch of hair at the juncture of her legs, inhaling the scent of soap, and  _her._

Astonished, Flora peered down at him with eyes as round as silver coins; the flush deepening on her cheeks. Alistair had stopped smiling, the focus returning to his face as he slid his palms to the undersides of her thighs. With a deep and anticipatory breath, he parted them slowly to display the soft, pink crease nestled within. She was slick from his earlier attentions; each neat fold swollen in anticipation.

_This is the most sacred thing I've ever seen,_ he thought to himself, reverently.  _And I've set eyes on the ashes of Andraste._

_Wait, is that blasphemous? Probably. Oh well._

_This is where her and I make ourselves one._

Flora, now bright pink in the cheeks, stared down at the top of her best friend's head; gleaming soft and bronze in the light spilling from the hearth. She could feel his breath coming hot and quick against her, his fingers gripping her thighs with determined fervour.

"Alistair," she whispered at the top of his head, strangely fascinated. "What – what are you  _doing?"_

"Kissing you, my love," he replied, lowering his face between her thighs.

"Whaaa- "

Instead of offering any further explanation, he spread her apart with finger and thumb, letting his tongue nestle neatly within her folds. He heard her let out a sound that was half-squeak, half-giggle of shock; her hand reaching reflexively towards his head.

"Alistair- "

The sound died in Flora's throat as he nudged the tip of his tongue against the wrinkle of flesh, her fingers falling loose against the blanket. Savouring the sweet, decadent taste of her, Alistair began to lap his tongue with greater vigour between her folds. He heard her inhale in startled wonder and the sound was so exquisite that he wished he could somehow bottle it. Growing in confidence, he continued to wriggle the tip of his tongue around the swollen bud at the apex of her folds. The young prince did not know exactly what he was doing – this entire venture had been based on a suggestion that Zevran had made to him several nights prior – but from the noises escaping his sister-warden's throat, he assumed that he was doing something correct.

"You taste so good," he mumbled thickly against the flushed skin of Flora's thigh, kissing a clumsy trail back down to her core. "My sweet Flo."

He suckled her into his mouth for a moment before returning his attention to the swollen bud of flesh, holding her heated folds apart with finger and thumb. By now Flora was wriggling on the bed beneath him, her hips lifting as she arched her back against the blankets. Helpless whimpers escaped her throat, her eyes squeezed shut and her fingers clenched into her palms. Alistair reached up an arm blindly, pinning her beneath him so that she could gain no respite from the growing pressure and intensity between her legs. In response, she wrapped her thighs around his shoulders; encouraging him on with a sob of pleasure.

The sound made the young man half-mad; he lost himself for several minutes, aware only of her heat, and her sweetness, and the slickness against his chin. Alistair ground his nose into her and she let out another moan, her fingers clinging on for purchase in the blankets. One of her hands had anchored itself to his shirt, clutching a fistful of damp linen. By now, he was as sweaty as she, the hair plastered to the back of his neck from his exertions.

"Please- " she begged him, desperate for release. "Alistair,  _please."_

Without warning, he felt her thighs tighten around his head, a new urgency entering her whimpers. Somehow sensing that she was on the verge of – of  _something,_ Alistair redoubled his efforts. He ate her like a starving man at a banquet; making up for a lack of finesse with sheer determined adoration; in that moment, Duncan's protégée and the hope of Ferelden had no goal in the world other than making his sister-warden break apart in the sweetest possible way.

Then he felt Flora shudder beneath him, her body racked in sudden, violent throes of pleasure. A sound tore free from her throat – almost animal-like – followed by something akin to a helpless sob. The bastard prince tasted a new sweetness on his tongue and inhaled it greedily, clutching her damp thighs close against his shoulders.

At last Alistair raised a dazed stare, peering up the plane of her belly and between Flora's small breasts to her face. She was gazing at him in awe, huge eyed and almost tearful from the intensity and the intimacy of what he had just done to her. He reversed his journey from earlier – more languidly this time – kissing her navel, the undersides of her breasts, the delicate hollow of her throat. Propping himself on his elbows, he ducked to press their foreheads together.

"My sweet girl," he murmured, feeling slender arms coil themselves needfully around his neck. "Did you like that, baby?"

"Yes," Flora whispered, still in a state of mild shock. "YES. I… I didn't even know that was- that was a  _thing._ I'm as surprised as a… a  _suddenly-harpooned eel."_

Alistair grinned down at her, admiring the coils of damp, deep red hair strewn over her shoulders like seaweed. He pressed his lips very sweetly against her forehead, brushing aside a stray crimson strand.

"I've been wanting to try that for days," he informed her, lowering himself to the mattress and reaching out for her. "Ever since Zev mentioned it to me. It's just not been  _practical_ to attempt it in a tent."

"Ooooh," Flora mumbled, reflexively tucking herself into the familiar space between his arm and his chest. "Mm. I'll have to thank him for the suggestion."

She tilted her flushed face up to his, her pale eyes reflecting the flickering amber up the hearth.

" _And-"_

"And, darling?"

Flora's gaze wandered deliberately downwards; she bit her full lip in anticipation.

" _Return the favour."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first oral, him to her, re-envisioned!! This was cuuuute to write hehehe, the whole thing felt really visual


	3. The Privacy Of A Bedchamber II

The hearth hissed and spat gently in the background, a log subsiding with a rush of sparks. For the first time in a long while, Alistair did not feel the urge to rush and attend to the fire – he was content to let it smoulder away while he gazed down at the girl nestled into his shoulder. The tavern around them had fallen still and silent; midnight was fast approaching and most of the inn's remaining patrons had either retired to their chambers or fallen asleep at their tables. Even the innkeeper was yawning as he pottered about the tavern, collecting half-filled tankards on a tarnished silver tray.

Neither Warden had drawn the curtains to their chamber, and the night sky sat framed in a neat wooden square on the adjacent wall. Although the previous day had been overcast, the heavens were now as clear and deep as some vast sea; affording those who happened to glance upwards a glimpse of a submerged constellation. It was cool – Ferelden's transition from winter into spring lasted longer than most nations' – and yet not cold enough to form a frost on the window-pane. Indeed, the foggy glass facing into the Wardens' bedchamber might have given the illusion of some humid Qunari-owned landscape; yet it was steamed up from the expenditure of body heat within.

The bastard prince and his mage lay sprawled amidst the blankets, savouring this rare opportunity of a  _bed._ For over a week they had been intimate beneath mouldering canvas, crowded into a tent that they shared with two large packs and a map-case nearly a foot in length. Although they had made it work, as young lovers always managed to do, it had been neither comfortable, nor particularly private. Zevran, who deliberately pitched his tent almost on top of theirs, had developed a habit of providing a running commentary – including helpful advice for Alistair – to their lovemaking. On another occasion, when Flora dared to make a noise louder than a strangulated whimper, she was told off in stern tones by both Wynne and Finian simultaneously.

Now, however, they had eight hours of delicious privacy to savour – a chamber of their own, a door they could  _lock,_ a bed that had a proper mattress. Alistair glanced once more across at the key, assuring himself that it was tilted counter-clockwise and therefore  _closed._ Typically, he had been the only one of the pair to check – earlier, Flora had barely waited for the door to swing shut before nonchalantly dropping her sheet. After five years spent under constant supervision in a Circle, and ten years in a single-room peasant hut, the concept of  _privacy_ was a foreign one to her.

Flora shifted herself against the blankets, stretching her languid limbs like a cat. Her entire body felt deliciously sated after Alistair's attentions, as though her legs and arms had turned to the warm Orlesian treacle that Leliana loved so much. She could not stop another shy blush from blossoming in her cheeks as she recalled what he had done to her only minutes prior: put his mouth between her thighs and devoured her like she was his favourite dessert.

Alistair admired his sister-warden as she wriggled against him, his eyes wandering over the milk-pale curves of her body. Her skin, usually cool and translucent enough that the bluish-green veins were visible like rivulets of seawater at her wrists, was loaned warmth by the hearth; the creamy flesh reflecting the warmth of the flickering flame. He reached out and ran his hand in a smooth, uninterrupted glide from her shoulder down to her thigh, savouring the gentle undulation between breast and hip. Flora nudged herself against his hand like a Mabari keen to be petted; not wanting his touch to stop.

"Maker's Breath, Flo," he said after a moment, his voice thick with desire. "The way you sounded just now – the  _noises_ you made – I can't get them out of my head."

Flora went obligingly pink in the cheeks; she could not quite believe that she had made those noises herself. The moans of a grown woman had broken free from her throat, she had begged him not to stop, she had  _pleaded_ with him to let her come. The young mage was not even sure where she had  _learnt_ such language – she supposed that she had overheard it from gossiping apprentices at the Circle.

"It felt so nice," she replied, rolling over onto her elbows and peering up at the underside of his stubbled chin. "You said Zevran gave you the idea? I wonder if he  _invented_  it."

"Uh," said Alistair, who was a little more worldly in the ways of the bedchamber due to eighteen months spent in the company of adult men in the Grey Wardens. "I don't think Zev  _invented_ … what we just did, though he'd probably claim otherwise. But he mentioned it to me the other night."

Alistair did not tell his sister-warden the  _full_  truth – that he and Zevran had been practising sparring when the elf had caught him deliberately off-guard by asking if their lovely redhead  _tasted_  as sweet as she looked. Alistair had dropped his sword in shock; the former Crow had giggled, and then made a suggestion that the young man could not get out of his mind.

He did not want to think about Zevran while in the bedchamber with Flora – Alistair half-expected the elf's voice to come drifting through the keyhole with 'helpful' suggestions. Instead, he returned his attention to his sister-warden's naked body, nestled into his clothed torso. Reaching out a covetous hand, he cupped Flora's buttock gently; admiring the press of ripe flesh against his palm.

"Wynne used to catch me staring at you all the time," he said impulsively, recalling the old mage's teasing remarks. "Especially when you wore those tight leather breeches. I couldn't take my eyes off you. And now I'm – I'm  _touching_ you. I still can't quite believe it. I feel like the luckiest man in Thedas."

He squeezed her buttock, letting his fingertips stroke the cleft of her rear until she quivered and shot him a heated look. Although Alistair had just professed his disbelief that they had ended up in such intimacy, in truth there had been a small part of him that viewed it as an inevitable consequence. Their first kiss had been before the hearth in the upper hall of Redcliffe Castle; and despite the inexperience on the part of both virgin parties, Alistair somehow suspected that he could have bedded his sister-warden that very night if he had so desired. He had managed to restrain himself, but from that moment on, both young recruits were aware that it was only a matter of time before they made love. Something fundamental had shifted between them; a raw need acknowledged for the first time. He began to slide his knee between Flora's thighs as they lay together on the bedroll at night; she rewarded him with tantalising glimpses of her bare breast when changing tunics.

From then their intimacy developed in uneven leaps; dependent on circumstance and opportunity. The night before they had entered the Deep Roads, curled together in a single bunk at Tapster's Tavern, she had rubbed him to the verge of climax through his sleep-trousers with the heel of a tentative palm. The first night back on the surface after they emerged from the Darkspawn's dreaded domain, he had put his lips to her nipple for the first time.

The revelation of Flora's parentage on their return to Redcliffe had paused their experimentation. Afterwards she was upset and not thinking clearly, and Alistair was more focused on soothing his shaken sister-warden than seducing her. It had taken them until Ostagar to finally broach that last barrier to their intimacy; they had made love on a bedroll in the mouldering remains of the Wardens' camp. Since that fateful night, both young recruits had thrown themselves whole-heartedly into exploring the world of adult pleasure; keen for some life-affirming distraction from the grim reality – and responsibility - that accompanied morning.

"Alistair," Flora breathed, her distinctive northern cadence breaking the young man from his reverie. "Alistair?"

He blinked, stroking his palm up the length of her naked back in response to her whisper. The hearth was still clinging to the last remnants of life, hissing and hurling the occasional rush of sparks up the chimney.

"Sweetheart?"

"The lucky one is me," she replied, propping her chin on the strong, muscled jut on his chest and eyeing him solemnly. "I feel like I've won something, being with you. And I never win anything."

Her hair, half-dry now from the heat of their exertions, framed her face with tangled dark red strands. Alistair grinned, to disguise the sudden hot prickle in the corner of his eyes. He reached out to lift her chin with two fingers, then ducked his head to press his mouth against her eager lips. It still thrilled him how readily his sister-warden yielded to his kiss; welcoming his tongue into her mouth in a tacit request for him to claim it. He did not often dare kiss Flora in view of others, since even the most chaste of pecks inevitably turned into a more enthusiastic – and passionate – embrace. Alistair was already hard within his breeches – a testament to the infamous Warden stamina, for he had inadvertently spilt his seed twice already that evening. Both the act of touching and the act of tasting his best friend's body had proven too great a stimulation to resist; though, each time, the young man had not lost his focus on the task at hand.

"My precious girl," he said hoarsely once they had parted, pink-faced and dazed. "You're the rarest prize in all Thedas."

Flora blinked at him, an odd combination of adoration and determination mingling across her fine-boned features. The next moment she had rolled herself on top of him, sitting upright as though in the saddle. Alistair stared back up at her, still prone against the cushions, his hair dishevelled from the earlier pressure of her thighs. Just as it had done earlier when she had entered the chamber and nonchalantly dropped the sheet, the air seemed to steal slyly from his lungs, leaving him breathless. His eyes moved feverish from her face, full-lipped and dreamy-eyed; to her position straddling his hips, the naked flesh as inviting and smooth as fresh cream. The sinful decadence of her hair, red as a Chantry mother's habit, fell in lazy ropes to her buttocks.

"Maker's Breath," the bastard prince croaked, his voice sounding thoroughly unlike itself as it crept from his throat. "Flora."

She curled the corner of her mouth down at him, like some benevolent pagan goddess; patron of the art of love. Leaning back, she let her hair fall loose between her shoulder-blades; positioning herself more deliberately above the iron swell tenting her new lover's breeches. Alistair waited, his breath frozen in his lungs, unwilling even to  _blink_  if it meant losing sight of her for a single heartbeat. Guided not by experience, but by raw instinct and the desire to please, Flora lowered herself against his breeches so that her softness melded to his linen-clad hardness. Before she could lose her nerve, she began to roll her hips back and forth; letting the pulse of lust within her core dictate a languid rhythm.

Alistair let out a helpless groan, his eyes glued to his best friend's gyrations as she ground herself against his clothed, painfully hard cock. He could feel the heat and pressure of her sweet, yielding folds as she writhed atop him; riding the trapped length as though it were already inside her.

"Flo," he croaked, helpless. "Please- "

Flora peered at him from beneath her eyelashes; recalling how she had begged him to take her earlier. Rather than rutting her on the spot, he had drawn out the exquisite agony still further; teasing her for a quarter-candle with his tongue before allowing her to climax. Instead of loosing the three buttons that would have freed her brother-warden's pinned length, she lifted her forefinger to her mouth and began to suckle it; peering at him from beneath her eyelashes.

Alistair watched her full lips work around her finger, wet with saliva; her eyes half-closed. He tried to speak and only part-words came out, incoherent and desperate.

"Flo-  _Flora- "_

Then, illuminated by the rich amber light of the hearth, her hair illuminated like copper filaments and her skin gleaming like a candle, his beloved best friend lowered her wet finger between her legs and began to touch herself.

It was clear that she had not done it before; not properly, or for any prolonged period. There was no confident boldness to her self-fondling; as tentative fingers explored her folds, a wide-eyed fascination blossomed over her face. Alistair inhaled unsteadily, the dark centres of his irises so enlarged that the surrounding hazel rings were barely visible. Equally enthralled, he watched the shy exploration of her fingers as they found the spots that felt best, dry mouthed and yet prickling with perspiration.

"Good girl," he managed at last, praising her as she located the most sensitive part of herself. "You're so fucking beautiful."

Flora darted him a quick, astonished glance from beneath her eyelashes; caught off-guard by the language that so rarely emerged from her kind brother-warden's throat. Even as she blinked, she felt a twist of desire from deep in her belly; something primal within her responded favourably to Alistair's crudeness. She closed her eyes with a little sigh and returned to her experimentation, exploring this slick and heated part of herself that had been so recently awoken.

Alistair reached down to grip her hips, cupping the undersides of her buttocks with his fingers and gripping the ripe flesh with a groan of desire. He shifted her against his breeches, positioning his clothed cock so that it angled itself directly between her thighs. She ground herself against it, rolling her hips in newly-learnt provocation; then smiled down at him with firelight flickering in her gaze.

"Flo – I  _need_ you _\- "_ he pleaded, unable to bear the thin linen barrier that prevented him from sinking ten inches deep inside her.  _"Please."_

Yielding she half-fell forward, her mouth colliding with his and her hands coming up to cradle his face. As they kissed, Alistair enveloped her in his arms, clutching her nakedness against his body. Taking advantage of her distraction, he rolled her over in a seamless motion; pinning her down against the mattress as their kiss continued. Keeping her lips occupied with the working of his mouth, the young prince reached down blindly to fumble with his breeches. A moment later, he had finally freed his aching cock from where it had been bent awkwardly within the uncompromising linen. After their thrice-nightly endeavours of the past week, he was far more adept at angling himself within her; finding the soft indent at the heart of her cleft, and pushing in.

He sunk himself fully within her in a seamless glide; Flora broke off their kiss to inhale unsteadily, eyes widening. She was still not quite used to the sensation of being  _penetrated_ , of having something inside her that was not part of her. It did not hurt – not like the first time had, at Ostagar – but she felt a little like a fish that had been impaled on a particularly large and girthy hook.

Yet Alistair was considerate of the girl beneath him. He knew the micro-expressions of his Flora's face intimately, even in the half-light, and understood that she needed a few moments to grow used to such pressure within her. He took the time instead to admire his sister-warden's face; flushed and full-lipped. Her eyes were the liquid gold of whiskey, the pale irises reflecting the heat of the hearth; her hair spilled like molten lava across the pillow. Overcome with sudden emotion, he ducked his head to kiss her forehead, her nose, her mouth in rapid succession.

"It feels so  _right,"_ he managed at last, removing his lips reluctantly from her skin. "Being… being inside you, Flo. I don't know how to explain it."

Flora smiled up at him with the damp remnant of his kiss gleaming on her lips.

"Like two halves of something," she whispered back, reaching up a dreamy hand to touch the tuft of rumpled hair at the crown of his head. "Put together at last."

Alistair closed his eyes; overwhelmed with relief and ecstasy that she felt the same way as he. Then, his body – impatient at being neglected in favour of sentiment – took charge at last. The strong muscle of his thighs sprang into action; the corded flesh flexing as his buttocks began to clench and loosen with each thrust. A groan slipped from his throat, his elbows pressed into the mattress as he drove into her sweet yielding with the vigour of youthful lust. Still inexperienced in the art of building momentum, of varying pace or pressure; the young man sheathed himself within his lover's thighs with relentless, animal need.

Yet his bed-partner was no delicate flower raised on tales of romance and sweet poetry. Flora was a northerner, who was far more robust than her slender frame and finely-hewn implied. She loved being pressed into the mattress; the heat and motion of sweaty muscle moving against her; she wrapped her legs around his waist and whimpered her delight at being taken with such forceful need. Her body felt deliciously foreign, pulsing with waves of liquid pleasure that emanated from the very core of her being.

As Alistair rutted his beloved, he kissed her with remarkable tenderness. When they parted, a moan of such raw satisfaction escaped from Flora's throat that she blushed, made shy by these new, emerging adult noises.

"Don't hold back, baby," he instructed breathlessly, noticing her turn her face into the pillow in an attempt to muffle herself. "I want to hear you."

Obediently Flora opened her mouth, tilting her head back. Now she cried out with each thrust, desperate keening sounds caught in the strange twilight between pleasure and intensity. Delighted by her obvious satisfaction Alistair increased the vigour of his thrusts, balls slapping wet between her thighs with each pump of his buttocks. The edges of his vision had begun to blur, the room, the tavern and Ferelden itself fading into inconsequential nothingness compared to the girl moulded to him; combined in a sweaty tangle of writhing soft flesh and hard muscle.

He then gripped Flora by the hips and rolled them both over, clutching her tight to his chest. She curled her fingers into his broad shoulders, anchoring herself to him as he rocked within her. The old bed-frame protested at such vigorous activity, emitting creaks and groans against the backdrop of more organic noises. Flora did not experience pleasure quietly; she wailed and gasped out into the smoky, hearth-heated air. Alistair, spurred on by such wanton sounds, pistoned himself up into her with increasingly erratic desperation. He was waiting on a knife-edge for the unmistakeable sound of her climax, his own cock straining for release.

At last he felt Flora shudder against his chest, her fingers clenching a death-grip into his shoulders. As she clung to him, her wail swelled into a ragged shriek of helpless pleasure; abandoning all restraint as the waves of her climax broke over her head. The sound, so raw and unexpected from his shy, soft-spoken sister-warden, was the final straw for the bastard prince. With his last shred of rational thought Alistair brought her back down into the mattress, lifting her knee so that he could sink even deeper between her thighs. Then, sheathed to the hilt atop her, he let himself go; tumbling over the edge of his own peak as the muscle of his buttocks tautened. He released a half-dozen spurts of his seed within her, each one feeling like a small absolution.

There followed a brief period whether neither young Warden could speak. A breathless Alistair rolled off her, the edges of his vision blurry and the crackling of the fire obscured, the intensity of his climax had temporarily impaired his senses. Blindly, he fumbled a hand into the shadow and found her fingers already reaching for his; their sweaty palms clasping. They lay side by side in simultaneous wonder for several minutes, flushed and damp with perspiration; muscles limp and bodies boneless.

"Maker's Breath," Alistair managed at last, blinking to clear his vision.  _"Maker's Breath,_ Flo."

Flora put her free hand to her mouth, turning her head to gaze at him with wide-eyed astonishment.

"Did you  _hear_ me at the end?" she whispered, the words muffled through her slender fingers. "I  _roared_ like a… like an angry barracuda."

Alistair smiled, eyes flaring with pleasure as he remembered the raw shriek of ecstasy that had emerged from his sweet companion's throat.

"I wouldn't call it a  _roar,"_ he murmured, interlacing their fingers and pulling her thigh over his. "More of a  _scream._ I imagine half the tavern heard it, my love."

"Oh noooo! Do you think?"

"These walls are only wood and plaster, baby. Not stone."

"OOOoohh."

Flora opened her mouth in an exaggerated  _O_ of dismay and he laughed, reaching out an arm to draw her into the broad muscle of his side. She nestled herself into the crook of his armpit; finding the spot that she had first claimed in those dark days after Ostagar when her nights had been plagued by terrifying visions. Fondly, Alistair retrieved a strand of crimson hair before it could get trapped beneath his arm, letting it drop against the curve of her breast.

"The whole tavern is welcome to hear us," he said, unexpectedly full of self-assurance. "We're both of age. Why shouldn't we enjoy some… relief from the pressure we face?"

"Mmm," agreed Flora, paddling her finger gently against his sweaty chest. "You're right. Want to go again?"

Alistair grinned, then shot a glance down at his deflated cock; lying across his thigh in sated resplendence.

"I might need a bit to recover," he said, reluctantly. "Unless- unless- "

He looked at her, the green-flecked hazel irises darkening several shades. She gazed back at him, then ran the tip of her tongue over her lips with deliberate slowness.

_Unless._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flo is a screamer lol XD


	4. Satinalia Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains minor spoilers from The Lion and the Light/The Bloom After The Blight. It's Satinalia Eve in Denerim Castle; King Alistair and Queen Florence finally get some time to themselves...

It was the eve of Satinalia, and the streets of Denerim were thrumming with anticipation. Many citizens were already prematurely celebrating this oldest of festivals within the myriad taverns and inns that lined the city streets, while others gathered in courtyards for more informal inebriation. Children sent to bed early pressed curious faces to the windows as grown men and women staggered down the roads, many of them singing in discordant fashion. Others were drunkenly toasting their young king and queen, and their new family.

_All hail King Alistair, son of Maric! All hail Florence the Fair! Dragon-slayer, turner of the tide!_

Fragments of song echoed from tavern doors, left crooked so that those within could shout out cheerfully to those spilling onto the pavements. These varied from eastern sea shanties, to traditional Alamarri melodies, to the occasional rude rendition of Fereldan songs. One of these was the explicit version of  _Warden Flora,_ which celebrated the infamous bedroom activities of the young king and queen. The second verse was particularly well known amongst those of certain tastes; hailing the miraculous powers of the queen's succulent mouth.

Up in the Royal Palace – the rambling, behemoth fortress cut from blocks of solid basalt that perched on a rock face above Denerim – the servants had also been given the evening off. Only the most essential remained within the castle – the guards, a handful of stewards and those cooks who still needed to put the finishing touches on the food for tomorrow's feast. Many of the nobles who had arrived for the festivities were either fast asleep or out celebrating; especially those belonging to the younger set. They had ventured down into the city proper, crowding into popular tavern the Gnawed Noble with pockets overspilling gold coins.

In contrast to the celebrations going on elsewhere, the royal bedchamber was quiet and dim by the ninth bell. The young parents had declined invitations to join the festivities; preferring a night spent away from the public eye. Their little twins and their adopted brother had been placed in their crib, and had fallen fast asleep enveloped in warm, cedar-scented air. Now the hearth burned low and gentle, casting a flickering amber hue across the flagstones. Two Mabari lay before the crib; one dozing while the other rested it's chin on it's paws and watched the doorway. Half-eaten dinner sat atop a table hewn from a single slab of oak; beyond it, on the vast fur-strewn bed, the King of Ferelden was about to undress his queen.

She lay sprawled amongst a tangle of blankets and wolfskins, her hair spread in a volcanic effulgence that flowed in all directions. The nightgown she wore was crafted from some supple material that clung to the flesh beneath it, leaving little of the queen's body to the imagination. The king – Maric's younger son, though he was the spit of him in image – took several deep breaths in an attempt to slow the urgent throb of his heart.

His wife of six months gazed up at him; the full and inviting lips slightly parted, already moistened by her tongue. She seemed at once alluring and yet guileless as a child; when she put her finger to her mouth and drew it inside, it seemed more because she wanted to suckle her own pretty finger rather then any calculated seduction.

Alistair groaned, as unable to take his eyes from her as he had been the very first time that she had shown her nakedness to him. It did not matter whether his queen's body was swollen with child, her belly rounded by his seed, or whether it was as slight and delicately crafted as an Orlesian doll; he found himself irresistibly drawn to her like iron to a lodestone. Even in the public eye he could not keep his hands from her; one palm on her thigh, fingers resting on her hip, a subtle cupping of her firm little buttock. It was as though she were some Alamarri goddess of rustic sensuality and he was her most loyal adherent; proving his devotion with every touch and caress.

Now, Alistair reached for the lace that kept the front of her nightgown closed, the sole barrier between him and his wife's nakedness. He hoped that his sweet Flora had not chosen to practice her fisherman's knots on the lacing; if he could not unfasten her nightgown swift enough, he would simply rip it apart and that would be the third one that month. Fortunately, she had tied the lacing with the simplest of bows – embellishing herself like a Satinalia gift – and he had no trouble pulling the knot loose.

Forcing himself to go slowly, the king drew the tail of the lace downwards; savouring every inch of creamy exposed flesh as the material loosened. His queen smiled at him – a benevolent goddess rewarding her worshipper - as he revealed the cleft of her breasts, the subtle swell of her occupied belly, the contour that led to the succulent apex of her thighs. The skin was smooth and hairless; Flora liked to sit in the bath and pretend that she was descaling herself like a fish with the shaving-blade. Alistair always laughed at her comparison, but secretly savoured the outcome, relishing the soft and unbroken creaminess of his wife's shaven skin.

Once he had pulled the final inch of lacing loose, the king reached out with unsteady hands and drew the nightgown open. A quiet and involuntary groan escaped his throat; hazel irises shadowed with reverence and desire as he gazed down at his wife's decadent nakedness. Crimson locks flowed like wine across the wolfskins; Alistair wanted to immerse himself in it. Flora smiled languidly back up at him, fully aware of the effect that her unclothed body and loosened hair had on Ferelden's young king.

"Husband," she whispered, barely louder than an exhalation. There lay further invitation in the curl of her slender fingers against the wolfskin; in the loll of her thigh; in the play of firelight across skin as rich and smooth as goat's milk. A stray eyelash, surprisingly dark in contrast to her pale irises, rested on the high apex of her cheekbone.

"My sweet girl," he replied hoarsely, the words slipping part-formed from his throat. "Maker's Breath. You're the most gorgeous… exquisite…  _beautiful- "_

Alistair Theirin was not known for his eloquence in the bedchamber, but this did not matter to his equally enamoured wife. Flora stretched out her arms to him and he half-lunged at her, kissing her hard and needful. It was a fierce collision of lips, his tongue immediately claiming ownership of her mouth as she yielded without protest. He groaned helpless into her mouth and she answered with a gasp, before pulling him back into the kiss with renewed passion.

After several minutes the king forced himself to break away, red-cheeked and panting like a Mabari in heat. He was aware that if he kept kissing his queen, there was every possibility that he would get prematurely  _overexcited_. Clambering from the bed, his limbs made warm and sluggish with desire, he made himself take several steps away; tearing his eyes from his wife and turning towards the hearth. Reaching for the buttons of his shirt, he took the self-imposed interruption as an opportunity to calm himself down.

As the king took deep gulps of air and forced himself to mouth verses of the Chant, his breathless queen – left on the bed - propped herself up on her elbows. The nightgown slithered down Flora's arms as she did so, and she shook the material off absentmindedly; nakedness was her preferred state anyway. She gazed across the chamber towards her husband, whose tall and imposing frame was silhouetted before the fireplace. Alistair was removing items of clothing one by one, deliberately pacing himself in order to regain some composure.

Flora watched the broad span of shoulders emerge from the cambric shirt; bulky with muscle like the flank of a horse. The arms, each strong enough to wield a great-sword single-handed, were similarly ironbound. She felt her mouth go dry, a hard beat throbbing in her throat. At the same time she felt a similar pulse between her legs; a primal throb that only grew stronger when he stepped out of his breeches. Taut olive buttocks sat above broad and powerful thighs, honed through years of meticulous training. Then he turned halfway round and she had to anchor her fingers in the blankets; for his cock stood up silhouetted against his stomach in a thick and jutting column of tawny flesh.

When the king rotated himself fully back towards the bed, all of his efforts to regain some self-control flew out of the lead-lined window. His wife was kneeling; her abundant hair flowing over her back and pooling over the flagstones. Reflected amber hues from the hearth licked over her bared breasts and she appeared at once both sweet and wholly wanton.

"Please," Flora whispered, her limpid eyes entreating. "Let me."

The tip of her small, pink tongue emerged to moisten her lips. Her gaze dropped from his face down to the erection that sprouted from a nest of short, downy bronze curls, and she let out a sigh of undisguised longing.

The young Theirin had inherited many qualities from his father; one of which was a streak of sexual dominance. Alistair had at first suppressed the urge to take control of his sweet young companion; after learning that Flora took pleasure in yielding, Maric's son nurtured these more primitive instincts. Now he strode across the bedchamber in a half-dozen paces, coming to a halt just before his kneeling queen. She tilted her head, awed at the sheer height of him; he reached out to spread a tender palm across her head. A moment later he had captured a handful of her hair, savouring the silken ropes as they wound about his fingers.

"So," he observed, low and amused; sounding far more like Maric than his usual kind-hearted self. "You want to take your king's cock in your mouth, my lady Cousland?"

His lady Cousland went pink in the cheeks but nodded. Given her position kneeling before him and the prepared moistening of her lips, she could hardly deny it.

"Please," she breathed again, half-closing her eyes as he reached out to rub a teasing thumb over her lips.

The king continued to fondle his wife's succulent mouth for several moment, savouring its full, plump ripeness. Then he pushed his thumb gently between her lips, feeling his cock twitch in impatient, anticipatory excitement as he felt the first caresses of her tongue. She suckled at him diligently, her luminous grey eyes fixed on his face; hoping that soon his thumb would be replaced by something more substantial.

Fortunately for the queen, her husband was not the most patient of men when it came to the bedchamber. He withdrew his thumb and took his cock in hand, angling it towards her mouth. She parted her lips expectantly but he resisted the temptation; teasing his wife with the swollen bulb at the end of his shaft. As he moved it across her lips, she tasted his arousal on the tip of her tongue; the scent awakening something raw and primal within her.

 _Please,_ her eyes begged him: huge, entreating.

At last the king gave his queen what she desired, easing the weighty thickness of his cock between her lips. She inhaled it gratefully, drawing in as much of the broad and meaty shaft as she could manage.

 _Good girl,_ he mouthed, not quite able to articulate the words as the blood surged away from his brain.  _Good girl._

The queen had become lovingly familiar with her husband's cock over the past year. Not only was she enamoured with the raw physicality of the organ – twelve broad inches of smooth, iron-hard flesh – but she loved the intimacy of taking it in her mouth. In the early weeks of their relationship, after they had begun to sleep tangled together but before they had shared their first kiss, she had awoken most mornings with her brother-warden's hardness pressing against her rear. As they grew closer, she had begun to tentatively caress it through his sleep-trousers, tracing the unfamiliar contour beneath the linen. She had not taken it into her mouth until after they had lain together for the first time; having done it, Flora took a particular liking to the activity. From then on, Alistair was fortunate enough to frequently enjoy the attentions of his sister-warden's diligent tongue.

The king let his head tip backwards, one hand still resting amidst the rampant abundance of his wife's hair. He had his feet firmly planted on the ground to anchor himself; a premature attempt to counter the inevitable unsteadiness. Already he could feel his bones turning to liquid, hot and molten pleasure flooding his veins as the most beautiful girl he had ever seen knelt on the flagstones before him, diligently suckling the length of his cock. The slight fingers played with his sac, stroking and caressing the heavy, warm bundles with fond familiarity. Her head moved back and forth with the vigour and regularity of dwarven piston; her free hand clamped around the base of his shaft. The previously dry flesh was now slick with her saliva and his own leaking arousal; her motions accompanied by soft, wet noises.

"Baby," the king said thickly, and she looked up at him, six inches of his cock buried within her throat and another four in her fist. "Baby, I won't last if you – if you keep- "

His sudden shot him an enigmatic look, before obediently letting him slip free from her mouth. Unfortunately, Alistair had only a moment's respite before she began to kiss his length from base to tip, pressing her lips in a ragged trail along his heated flesh.

"Flora," he croaked, and now it was his turn to plead. "You've sucked my soul halfway to the Fade."

She giggled - amused by his comment – and the king took advantage of her distraction. He leaned down, gripping her by her naked hips and lifting her bodily over his shoulder. Flora's hair fell loose against his back, her small feet waving impotently.

"Now, I have you," Alistair murmured, listening to his wife squeak as he ran a possessive hand over her buttocks. "My beautiful wife."

He carried Flora to the bed and deposited her onto the blankets; careful even in the throes of lust not to handle her too roughly. She sprawled back against the furs, languid and serene as though she had not just been carried there like a naughty child. Her hair spread across the blankets like silk ribbons spilling from an embroiderer's basket.

In a heartbeat the king was on top of his queen once again, just as he had been a quarter-candle earlier except now he was Maker-naked and rampantly erect. He rutted his hips against hers, putting his mouth very close to her ear.

"You've no idea how insane you were driving me in that council meeting earlier, baby," he breathed, letting the swollen head of his cock nudge against her soft, slick cleft. "Your breasts in that tight – corsety –  _thing._  I wanted to rip it off and have you right there on the table."

"'Mmmm- "

Flora let out a whimper, thrusting her hips upwards in an attempt to encourage him inside. He grinned into her neck, reaching down to grip himself in a callused fist; deliberately teasing her with the promise of penetration.

"They all want you, you know," Alistair continued, pride in the beauty of his wife mingling with a possessive edge. "Even the ones old enough to be your father. But you're not theirs, you're  _mine._ My own precious Flora."

His own precious Flora smiled up at him, lazy and lust-filled; the adoration bright in her face. She reached up a thoughtful finger and let it trace the chiselled, stubble-flecked contour of his jaw; not paying too much mind to his words. The king exhaled unsteadily at the touch, his pupils shrinking and then dilating to wide, inky discs. He ground his hips more purposefully into hers, continuing to speak in a low, agitated murmur.

"And your ass – your firm little  _ass_ in those leather breeches, Maker's Breath."

She curled her legs around Alistair's waist as a groan slipped from his throat.

"It was crafted by something  _divine_ , Flo, I swear it."

Too impatient for further foreplay he thrust his hips forward, trusting that the angle was correct. It was: he sheathed himself in a single, lengthy stroke; marvelling at how something could feel so tight and yet so incredibly welcoming. He heard her inhale in a short, startled gasp, eyes widening. Swiftly, he leaned down to capture the last part of her exhalation; seizing her breath between his lips.

Breaking the kiss, the king paused for a moment; propping himself up on muscled arms as he darted a quick glance around him. The fire was burning quietly in the vast hearth; dim and far below, the lights of Denerim gleamed, just visible through the leaded window. The bedchamber was a mixture of the rustic and the royal, plain plaster walls augmented with the ancient emblems of the Theirin dynasty. On the low oak dresser, the matching golden bands of the royal couple sat side by side. Nearby stood the crib housing his infant children; their soft sleep-noises rising beneath the blanket. Beneath him lay his queen, naked and pink-cheeked, her arms twining around his neck as he lay sheathed within her.

"This is where I'm meant to be," Alistair Theirin breathed, a glorious certainty in the words. "Right here.  _This_ is – this is my place. My home."

"Yes," Flora whispered back, curving the corner of her full Cousland mouth up at him.  _"Home."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR!!! :D


End file.
